Hollywood Ending?
Wrexham hadn’t seen this much excitement since the club’s miraculous return to the Football League. But the buzz this time wasn’t from a goal-line clearance or a last-minute winner—it came from something far stranger.
Reports broke early Tuesday morning that Ryan Reynolds, co-owner and Hollywood’s most charming chaos agent, was in talks to sell Wrexham AFC. The alleged buyer? A shadowy figure known only as “J. King”—a film producer with no known ties to football but a penchant for the absurd.
According to anonymous sources close to the club, King’s offer didn’t come through the usual channels. Instead, a thick manila envelope, sealed with wax and stamped with the words “FOR THE DRAGON’S KEEPER”, arrived at the Racecourse Ground last Thursday. Inside was a script.
“The whole club’s in it,” said a visibly bewildered Phil Parkinson, the Wrexham manager, while speaking to local press. “It’s a bloody sci-fi sports epic. There’s aliens, time travel, and somehow, I’m played by Tom Hardy. I don’t hate it.”
The script, titled Red Dragons: The Final Fixture, is a bizarre fusion of genres. Wrexham players are cast as rebel freedom fighters from a parallel universe, where football is not just a game but a tool to battle interdimensional tyranny. Rob McElhenney, also co-owner of the club, is reportedly cast as the villain—a warlord who bans all forms of joy and insists on a tactical 4-6-0 formation across all galaxies.
“We didn’t see it coming,” said Callum, a season ticket holder. “I thought we were going to push for promotion, not interstellar glory.”
Ryan Reynolds, who was last seen wearing a vintage Wrexham scarf and sipping a kombucha outside a sushi restaurant in West Hollywood, hasn’t officially confirmed the negotiations, but sources say he was “visibly conflicted” after reading the proposal.
“Ryan loves this club,” said a member of the production crew for Welcome to Wrexham. “But you should’ve seen his face when he read that scene where Paul Mullin scores a bicycle kick on the moon. He just whispered, ‘This might be my greatest legacy.’”
In a strange twist, the script is legally binding. Tucked in the back of the envelope was a contract with a clause that, should Reynolds agree, filming would begin immediately—on location in Wrexham and select undisclosed ‘cosmic vistas’ rumored to be enhanced sets in Iceland and New Zealand.
The deal is lucrative, reportedly offering a figure “ten times higher than any previous Hollywood investment in a football club.” The buyer also promised full creative control to the team: if the lads wanted to rewrite scenes to add more set pieces or ban CGI, they could. Mullin allegedly demanded a subplot where he becomes “half-human, half-ball” after a freak accident in a galactic goal net. King agreed.
Still, not everyone in Wrexham is thrilled.
“We’ve just built all this momentum, and now we’re a movie?” said one local pub owner. “Are they going to CGI the pies, too? I don’t want to live in a world where Wrexham becomes the Star Wars of Wales.”
But others saw the upside.
“Why not?” said Siân, a barista who watched the club’s resurgence with pride. “Reynolds already put us on the map. If the next step is battling alien referees while riding robotic sheep, I say let’s do it.”
Back in Los Angeles, Rob McElhenney held an impromptu press conference. He appeared excited and bewildered, sipping a Dragon Ale (custom brewed for the script’s promotional tour) while fielding questions from Variety and The A.V. Club.
“Listen,” he said, “we always said this club was about dreaming big. We didn’t say those dreams couldn’t involve hyperdrive boots and space hooligans. We’ve got the heart. Now we’ve got the sci-fi.”
Despite the public confusion, one thing was certain: Wrexham AFC was once again breaking barriers—this time, potentially into the stratosphere. Fans began circulating mock posters online. “Red Dragons: The Final Fixture” trended on X (formerly Twitter) for six hours, only beaten by an AI-generated sequel to Paddington.
The town, though, held its breath. The Racecourse Ground stood as it always did—rainy, noble, humming with quiet hope. Posters for the upcoming season still hung in the ticket booths. Children still wore their heroes’ numbers. The heart of the club remained unchanged.
But something electric hovered in the air.
By Friday, new rumors emerged: the mysterious buyer, J. King, had visited the Turf pub under a pseudonym and bought every patron a round. The bartender confirmed only that the person “had a jaw like a Hemsworth and a trench coat that whispered secrets.” Many believed he was scouting for filming locations—or perhaps just soaking in the soul of the club.
Reynolds, meanwhile, posted a cryptic video to Instagram: a slow zoom on the Wrexham badge stitched into a spacesuit, scored with the club’s chant set to a soaring orchestral score. The caption read only: “To be continued…?”
And just like that, the world waited—not for a whistle, but for a slate. For the clapperboard. For action.
Whatever came next, one thing was clear: Wrexham had already become something more than a football club.
It had become a legend.
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